


Aftermath

by sakon



Category: Lucha Underground
Genre: Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:14:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24538297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakon/pseuds/sakon
Summary: Melissa seeks Azteca after a moment of solitude.
Relationships: Dragon Azteca Jr. & Melissa Santos
Kudos: 2





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Fénix did the whole fuckshit in season 4. Azteca and Melissa r cute :')

It's cold. He's nursing his wounds and pressing an icepack that pricks into skin like tiny pin needles and does more harm than it does help. The night time of the Temple seeps through open cracks and crevices and deep into his skin, the occasional light painting the soft sun tan into a bright white or a deep yellow. 

He hears footsteps echoing through the Temple, the familiar footfalls noticeable from miles away. He can feel the anger in some, dissatisfaction in the way they shuffle, and sadness in others. He doesn't question nor bother with his own; there's dissatisfaction and a plethora of emotions just to be told from the circle he's been walking for minutes. The pacing doesn't help him with anything, and yet he does it anyway. All of their steps are engrained into his mind, just for the rare chance he might need it.

And with the sound of footsteps approaching him, it comes in handy. They're gentle, the sound of heels clacking against the concrete floors hardly echoing and hardly leaving a vibration.

No one wears heels nor has footfalls that soft. No fighter, or no official fighter that is. Azteca knows who it is, so he merely keeps pacing as the steps get closer and closer, throwing his head over his shoulder when he feels the vibrations and clack of the heels behind him. 

Her eyes are trained on him, mouth sitting in a thin line as she approaches him, then says, "You came to my aid last week." 

"I never got to thank you." A voice spills over as a hand touches his shoulder. It's hesitant, and he stops his pacing to feel it.

A calloused hand touches to hers. It's the first contact she's felt with anyone in a while— she hasn't been able to. Aerostar was kind enough to lend her a shoulder and a voice, but with his mind on Drago, she doesn't indulge. They both have their issues, and she doesn't need to burden him anymore than he's been. More doesn't want to. 

"I wanted to say thank you.. and I wanted to know why. So, thank you, and why?" 

The words in his throat stop as he contemplates an answer he doesn't know. There's only so much someone can say of justice and righteousness and chivalry before it gets tiring, so he settles for saying, "I simply did the right thing,"

It sounds like something Fénix would say. 

"And besides, a championship is not worth you being hurt," A chance at glory and revenge can wait. The blood in the water is not worth biting, at least not yet. It sounds like another something that the firebird would parrot. 

"That's not true," She laughs, voice still like wind chimes and tinkerbells. He wonders when her voice will become gruff with the Temple's dirt, but her voice is strongest— so he supposes a while. 

It's still very beautiful to hear, even if he basks in the silence. The Temple is too silent, too clear. If it could always be this peaceful, it would be beautiful. 

They sit in the silence before Azteca speaks.

"Do you know why?" He blurts, voice breaking off at the end, and Melissa can feel the heat on his skin— the remnants of the Temple's ash and dirt spreading across her own as he brings a hand to hers. His voice is still strong.

She frowns, feeling the hand squeeze her own in a form of comfort. She isn't sure if she wants to feel the calluses of his hand, the ridges and rough curves, or whether she wants to push it away. Then, the hand retracts, lingering on her knee for a moment. It's almost as if he knows what she's thinking. 

"Yes—" Her voice wavers, then grows solid once more, "I wish I did something to stop it."

She finds the hand on a knee so close to bumping against hers and takes it. Everything is spilling, the dam in her brain breaking and a flood of words filling her throat before she can think them over. She's always been like that.

"And now, I don't know where to go from here."

He wonders where Rey is. Neither does he, but it won't benefit her to hear his uncertainty, so he keeps it on his tongue. It isn't his time to speak; it's his time to listen. She continues to speak.

"Fénix, he's... he's different now," She says with the thought of his resurrection claiming her mind. It feels so close, yet so distant. It was a mere week ago that he had done what he done.

"So where do I go from here?" 

"You move on from here. Something will be done eventually," He moves a stray strand of hair behind behind her ear, feeling the sweat sewing on their skin meet.

"You make it sound easy." It doesn't sound insulting and full of bite, it's desperate. She wishes it could be that easy, but the grit wouldn't be buried into her if it were so, and she'd never be this strong if it were easy.

"If it were easy, you wouldn't be here." He laughs, and she laughs along with him. The sting of the bruises as he laughs, ribs aching, seems to lessen with the joy of her laughter. 

"No," She corrects him as she opens her purse and brings a roll of bandages from it. It's half-used, and he can only guess that it was her tending to Fénix's wounds with care and concern deeply contrasting that of a mentor figure, "I still would be,"

His eyebrows furrow, but before he can say anything, she finishes her sentence. 

"I came to offer help," It's the least she can do.

Throwing the bag strap over her head and on her shoulder, Melissa throws her purse onto the floor. It rattles with all that's in it, ranging from the trinkets for luck to the rolls and bandages for Azteca. She ties her hair back with a rubberband, keeping her properly curled and done and pretty. A tiny burn so minuscule that most wouldn't notice rests on the outside of her index finger, and he assumes it's from an iron. 

"You don't need to—"

"I'm going to," She interrupts him, and even though she knows he can deal with his wounds by himself, she presses on.

"Alright," He puts his hands up in surrender, then chuckles as his eyes slowly lid. He can see her through the haze, a cloth wrapped around the ice to dull the throb drawing him into reality. He can't afford to close his eyes for even a moment, with the sound of her voice droning and the sensations of delight that come in her presence keeping him awake, but he can afford this moment of vulnerability. 

He can, and when he hears a phrase he laughs at, he feels even more vulnerable. 

"I got this," It's an order to let her handle it, and when his body becomes limp and the only movements are that of his lips, she handles it.


End file.
